Page 11 of Hex House
Haina offers one of her disarming smiles. There’s not a hint of surprise in it. The light shifts a little outside the window; there’s a dimming as a cloud covers the sun. Elly shivers.
“Just when I was starting to think you were too much of a coward,” Haina says, so quietly that at first, Ellythinks she must have misheard. Haina is still smiling, as though they’re being watched without sound, as though she’s keeping up appearances.
“I’m… I’m sorry?”
“Elly Carmichael. Never says no. Never rocks the boat. Brought up on warm milk and compliments. It’s no wonder is it, really? About Ethan?”
Haina’s face has changed. The soft look in her eyes is gone, replaced by a cold steeliness that makes Elly’s stomach lurch. “Ethan loves me,” she hears herself say.
“Ethanbrokeyou,” Haina sneers. “Because he could. Because you let him. You wear it all over, like a wounded puppy.”
Elly hates herself for the tears that sting the backs of her eyes. She hates the way she can’t stop her hands from shaking in her lap. “You told me… you told me you understood. I don’t—”
“God help that baby,” Haina spits, interrupting her. Each word is a poison arrow, burrowing deeper beneath her skin. “In this world? Having you for a mother?”
She gives Elly one last derisive glance, then spins back to her desk. She picks up the papers she’d been working on before as if Elly isn’t there and starts to shuffle them, quick and decisive.
“I’ve changed my mind,” she says. “You can go.”
Elly’s vision is blurry. The patterns on the rug transform themselves into faces, hanks of hair, laughing mouths. She doesn’t know what just happened. She’s never been hit in the face but wonders whether it feels like this: the sudden, stinging shock of violence.
“You’re dismissed,” Haina says, voice brusque.
Elly can’t get her muscles to move. They’re gluey and heavy, like she hasn’t used them in months. Haina is turned away from her as if she already knows everything Elly might say in her own defence, and has decided none of it is even worth listening to. The way she’d looked at her, so confident that she was the one in control – it had reminded Elly of Ethan. It’s unbearable to feel like that again, at the complete whim of another person, being told what to do, where to go. She stares at the back of Haina’s head, the gloss of her impossibly black hair. She’s aware of a new thought, unfurling itself like a creature from hibernation.
She wants to grab a chunk of that hair and rip it from Haina’s head.
“No,” she whispers, the word out of her mouth before she can stop it.
Slowly, Haina turns in her chair. The look in her eyes is withering. “Excuse me?”
“No,” Elly says again, louder now. “I am not dismissed. You’re going to explain to me what’s happening.”
For a moment, neither of them speaks, and there’s no sound in the study except the rustling of the fire. Elly is warm all over, as though she’s burning. Her hands itch. She watches every inch of Haina’s face for clues, noting the way her dark eyes flicker down to Elly’s lap and then back up. She doesn’t expect the wide smile, the hushed anticipation in Haina’s voice when she speaks again.
“Elly,” she whispers. “Look.”
Elly glances down at the hands lying in her lap. Only, they aren’t her hands anymore. Her arms are still her arms, her wrists are still her wrists, but there’s a lighteningat her palms where the warm skin has become something soft, furred. Where there had been fingers, there are now glossy fronds, intersecting like a fan. It takes Elly a long second to see them for what they are.
Feathers. Five of them, white dappled with brown, like footprints through snow, long claws curling from the tips. When Elly screams, those feathers quiver and twitch, as if they’ve only just remem bered that they’re alive.
NOW
The email arrives the morning after Siobhan has drinks with Owen.
She’s insulated in the queasy fuzz of her hangover, not quite part of the world yet. She stands yawning by the sink, one hand clutching the cool stainless steel of the draining board and the other pouring boiling water over lumps of old coffee at the bottom of a cafetière. There’s a window over the sink, tall and thin, crowded by plants she never remembers to water. Past their brown and curling leaves, the city sprawls like an ancient body finally given permission to recline. Tiny people shuffle down its veiny streets, cells in constant motion.
The coffee is so hot that it takes the top layer off her tongue. Siobhan feels like a different species, cloistered up here in the quiet. She longs, suddenly, to be amongst crowds, to be one of those bodies, driven by a purpose and somewhere to go. The email flashes up on her phone, innocuous until she opens it. She bites the inside of her cheek as she reads.
Hey Siobhan,
I hope you don’t mind me reaching out. My name’s Zara Doherty, and I’m a journalist. I work for SunWolf Productions here in Edinburgh, and we’re currently putting together a new documentary that I’d love to discuss with you. The working title is:Hex House: Coven or Cult?
Apologies if I’ve misunderstood the situation, but I’ve been led to believe by an anonymous source that you were working on a documentary about Hex House a few years ago. Is that true? I heard the doc ultimately didn’t pan out for you, so I just wanted to touch base and see how you’d feel about working together on this, or even coming on as co-director. We’ve got a great budget for the project at SunWolf, and everyone is really excited about the doc and keen to get your expertise on the team.
This is a real passion project for me, and I think it has the potential to be huge. Obviously, everyone’s heard of Hex House. It’s got real enduring appeal. Together, I reckon we can get to the bottom of this whole thing and debunk one of the biggest urban legends out there.
Also, and this is maybe a bit unorthodox, but my source also asked to pass a message on to you. She wants you to know that Haina is dead. My apologies if this is upsetting news, but my source was very keen that you should know as soon as possible.
